Night
by B. Murakawa
Summary: Spot is ashamed. Racetrack is angry.


Author: Becky Murakawa

Rating: PG-13

Pairing : Race/Spot

Summary: Spot is ashamed. Racetrack is angry.

Disclaimer: If I owned them, the movie would've had a higher rating.

Author's Notes: Takes place after Jack gave in to Pulitzer. Just my little fantasy. Actually wrote this ages ago, but completely forgot about it. Don't expect perfection--fantasies really do work out like this.

**Night**  
  
1  
  
Once the grim parade of World employees and cops passed by, the other fellows dispersed in a disappointed, muttering throng. Spot remained at the gates of the distribution center, eyes glazed over and his hands curled into fists so tightly contorted his knuckles were white. He'd been wrong. Jack, his Jacky-boy, King of Manhatten, modern-day messiah...Jack the scab, Jack the traitor.  
  
What was he going to tell his boys? They'd believed in Jack because Spot had, and Jack's betrayal only served to tarnish both of their reputations. It was going to be hell trying to gain back the trust of the Brooklyn boys. They had grown accustomed to being let down, and though their skins were tough, they could bleed like everyone else.  
  
And rarely, if ever, did Spot make a mistake.  
  
Well, this had been the Big One. This time, he'd really done it; latched onto the bait nice and firmly, and suddenly he was out of the water, into the frigid air of reality.  
  
"Sonuvabitch," someone cursed.  
  
Spot echoed the sentiment without bothering to identify his companion. The acrid scent of cigar smoke made his nostrils flair.  
  
"Makes me wanna kill summin." Warmth to his right. Nodding, Spot planted his feet and took a few jabs at an imaginary Jack Kelly, his breath coming in short gasps.  
  
The world was a dreary collage of grays and browns, all iron and stone. "I'll kill 'im meself if I ever get 'im alone, away from the goddamned bulls." Spot's voice was raw with anger.  
  
"God, I gotta be movin'. I can't stand the sight 'a this place for another second," the other boy declared. The warmth receded, and Spot, without being asked, turned to follow.  
  
He recognized Racetrack Higgins even from behind, and felt himself freezing over. A Manhatten newsie. Just what he needed. Manhatten had long been associated with Jack in Spot's mind.  
  
But he followed, all the same. He didn't want to admit to himself that he wasn't ready to face his boys--wasn't quite ready to be Brooklyn for everybody. He was glad Racetrack was facing away from him, silent, his pace almost desperately hurried.  
  
The streets of Manhatten were endless, or so it seemed to Spot, who was completely lost after the first few turns. Dirty, bone-thin children gave the older boys a wide berth. The two companions passed taverns and brothels, darkened tenements and filthy shops tended by frowning men. Almost like Brooklyn, Spot thought, except it was calmer.  
  
Just when the backs of Spot's legs were beginning to ache in protest, Racetrack ducked into a building even more derelict than the ones surrounding it. Without even a moment's hesitation, Spot strode in after him.  
  
2  
  
"You just come out here and say whatcha gotta say to me face!"  
  
Muffled shouting from the interior of what Spot now knew to be the Tavern to end all taverns, but not surprisingly, no one rose to Racetrack's invitation.  
  
Determinedly ignoring the chuckling, cursing boy, Spot took inventory of the injuries he'd sustained. His ribs felt bruised, and he knew the flesh around his right eye was going to be a nasty shade of purple-yellow by morning.  
  
Racetrack spit blood onto the cobbled street, eyes shining dangerously. "Asshole stole my goddamned money. I'd say I earned that money, fair an' square, doncha agree, Spot?" Without waiting for an answer, Racetrack adjusted his hat and set off down the street, his balance slightly off. One beer too many, Spot thought. Not that he himself hadn't downed a glass or two.  
  
"Helluva fight, though, won't it?"  
  
Spot had to agree. He'd expected one as soon as Racetrack barged into the place, shooting off wisecracks and pulling out a battered pack of cards. It had been so good to feel his fists connect with human flesh, so fine to wrestle some arrogant guy to the floor and beat the living shit out of him.  
  
There had been so many against Racetrack and him, and it had been nearly as satisfying to have a hoard of well-aimed blows showered upon his thin frame. His heart was still pumping wildly, like some little bird trapped in his chest. Never before had the night air been so invigorating, or the setting sun so brilliant.  
  
Racetrack was saying something that was apparently very amusing, because he started laughing and didn't stop for a long time. Then, "You was great in there, ya know."  
  
"I know I was," Spot smirked, pleased that Racetrack had noticed.  
  
"Nice shiner, too..." The black-haired boy trailed off, then suddenly whirled around, shoulders tense.  
  
Spot thought of the courtroom, and Jack walking in all cocky and smiling, the right side of his face swollen. "Nice shiner ya got there, Cowboy," Racetrack had said. And Spot had grinned and loved the way Jack absorbed the attention, revelled in it.  
  
Something acidic slid into his gut, and Spot suddenly knew what it was like to hate someone so much it was like dying.  
  
"Fuckin' scabber," muttered Racetrack, his fingers clenching and unclenching.  
  
Noiselessly, Spot fell into stride beside the gambler, forcing his emotions down and not allowing his face to betray them.  
  
"You goin' back tonight?"  
  
Back to Brooklyn, Racetrack meant. For a long time, Spot didn't answer. His hand rested on his thigh, near the pocket where his slingshot was concealed and the belt loop in which his cane was secured. "No," he said finally. He met the other boy's gaze defiantly.  
  
"Good," said Racetrack. "I dunno about you, but I'm all for getting ass- over-heels drunk."  
  
3  
  
Whether it was late night or early morning, Spot couldn't be sure. He was having trouble keeping his thoughts straight, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. The streetlights made little explosions appear behind his eyelids. He tightened his grip around Racetrack's waist.  
  
Carefully Spot shuffled past the gaping mouth of an alley. Racetrack was heavier than he looked, and at the moment he was hindering more than helping the two boys' progress.  
  
"Damn you, try to hold onta me. I ain't gonna drag ya all the way," Spot hissed irritibly. A thudding rhythm began at his temples, and he resisted the urge to simply punch the boy wrapped loosely around him.  
  
"A'ways glad to be 'a service, Brooklyn," retorted Racetrack cheerfully, his words slurring together almost unintelligibly.  
  
"Shut up." He slumped against a brick wall, letting Racetrack slide to the ground bonelessly. Not many people were out at this hour. The rich might be able to afford long nights of partying and fooling around, but a working man (or woman, or child) had to catch what sleep he could.  
  
"Gotta go down this street, over one, an' then down a bit more," Racetrack said, his voice embarassingly loud. "I'll know it when we're there."  
  
"What?" Spot forced his eyes to focus. "Whadja say?"  
  
Racetrack pulled himself up, his legs so unsteady he had to use Spot for balance. "Said, go down this street some more."  
  
"Yeah," said Spot, but instead of trying to haul Race back up, he sat down next to him, mind reeling. He didn't think he could walk anymore. The world kept doubling in front of his eyes.  
  
"I'm so goddamn sloshed," Racetrack laughed. He covered his face with his hands. Tears were streaking his dirty cheeks, but he was still laughing.  
  
"Stop it," Spot said, hiding his panic with anger. "You just stop it, awright?" He grabbed at Racetrack, shook him hard, but the boy only laughed louder, his voice climbing into the night in one long, almost- hysterical note.  
  
"Jack," he said.  
  
"Jack ain't here, damn you!" Spot hit him, slapped his hands away, knocked him over, crawled on top of him and boxed his ears. "Jack's a fuckin' traitor, an' he ain't never gonna be here no more!"  
  
He was more than furious, and Racetrack was fever-hot, and suddenly he knew that they were too close. When he tried to get up, his hand brushed up against the front of Racetrack's trousers, and he felt even hotter. He shoved himself backwards, flat on the wet pavement, ashamed and no longer angry. His pulse was loud in his ears, and alcohol clouded his reflexes. He should have run.  
  
He didn't.  
  
The kiss was hard and Spot opened his mouth to it, pretty and plain girls dancing in his head but they'd never bitten his lips red, never cupped his ass or tangled large square hands in his hair. Trousers too tight, eyes wide open because he had to see this, had to know it was real even though a part of him didn't want it to be. He was no fucking pansy. He was enjoying this. The hard body against his own, he was being crushed into the cobblestones, and he didn't care. Racetrack's dark eyelashes brushed against his skin--dark eyes only barely visible, too close for comfort, but that was the last thing Spot needed.  
  
"Come on," Racetrack muttered against his mouth, and then he was being pulled to his feet, spine creaking awkwardly. The hand twined around his was immediately jerked away, and Racetrack was leaning against the brick wall of a nearby shop. Not a soul besides themselves in sight.  
  
Spot nodded and allowed the other boy to wrap an arm about him, not so much for companionship's sake as for balance. They continued on into the night. 


End file.
